Oasis (The Last Humans Book 1)

by Zales, Dima

  I stare at it openmouthed.

  This is no French countryside, obviously. I didn’t truly think it would be. But I didn’t expect this… conformity. Why keep the Youths away when everything here is so similar to our section, with the same geometrically perfect metal structures and bucolic greenery, only scaled differently?

  “Scale is pretty important,” Phoe says. “You can figure out the ratio of Adults to Youths from the scale, and that ratio can reveal other things, such as birth rates.”

  I unpeel my eyes from the distant buildings and look at Phoe’s disk.

  “How is it that this thing can fly?” I ask. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

  “I already told you: I’m not here in the real sense of the word,” Phoe says. “This form you see is an Augmented Reality construct.”

  “I meant me,” I say. “How am I flying on a disk? I’m not Augmented.”

  “Oh,” Phoe says innocently, as though she didn’t realize what I meant. “Similar to those stairs at the Zoo, this probably has to do with magnetic fields and room-temperature superconductors.”

  “Ah, why didn’t you tell me that before?” I say sarcastically. “Now I totally get it.”

  “And I wouldn’t go so far as to say you’re not Augmented.” She snickers. “Though you’re not an AR avatar, with your nanocytes, you’re pretty augmented all right.”

  “I get that too,” I say without sarcasm.

  “Then I assume you also get that we can’t fly any farther,” Phoe says, her tone turning more serious. “They could spot us.”

  “So where do we go?” I ask.

  “I’m thinking we should turn back and return to the Youths’ side, even if it means we can’t fly.” She raises her hands and massages her temples. “The Guard we fled from has undoubtedly reported our encounter and—”

  She stops talking and stands up on her flying disk. Her whole body locks as if she’s frozen. With the way she’s standing, it looks as if she’s staring into the distance to her right.

  I follow her gaze.

  “Crap,” I say at the same time as she says, “Shit.”

  Like a flock of migratory birds, a group of Guards is approaching us, their disks reflecting the sun’s rays.

  Phoe comes out of her reverie, swerves her disk sharply to the left, and shouts, “Follow me.”

  I tilt my palm so sharply left I nearly pull my forearm muscle in the process. The result is worth it, though.

  I follow Phoe’s trajectory perfectly.

  We torpedo forward, the tops of the trees becoming a solid green blur below us.

  “Stop, Theo,” Phoe yells at me. “Make your hand into a fist to do that, like this.”

  She follows her words with a gesture that I mimic right away. My nails dig into my palm as I make a fist, and we both come to a sudden stop.

  There are Guards in the direction we were flying in.

  They’re still in the distance, but it doesn’t make them any less of a problem.

  “Left?” I say urgently. “Or right?”

  “They have us surrounded. I think we should go up.”

  “Up? But—”

  “Your fear of heights is a phobia,” Phoe says. “In this case, a pretty irrational one.”

  “But—”

  “Just think how ironic it would be if the fear that’s meant to help with your survival causes you to get killed,” she says, then tilts her hand up.

  “Fine,” I say and raise my palm with my fingers upward, the way she just did.

  I meant to raise it at a sharp ninety-degree angle but ended up with only half of that. Still, I climb higher, and the trees below get farther and smaller.

  “Now you need to go forward.” Phoe’s voice is in my head. “As fast as you can.”

  I motion to go forward.

  “Now swerve around unpredictably—it’s our only chance.” She starts dashing around violently to illustrate her point.

  I do as she instructed. It’s actually not hard. My hands are shaking, my fear giving me a swerving advantage. I maneuver so unpredictably that even I don’t know where my disk will go next.

  It doesn’t help, though.

  The Guards don’t need to know where I’m going when they have numbers on their side.

  “There are at least sixty of them,” Phoe whispers.

  I suspect she’s lowballing it to make me less scared. I would’ve guessed there are closer to a hundred Guards in my path.

  I turn back but see Guards about forty feet behind me.

  I look left—Guards.

  I turn right—even more Guards.

  I look down—a ton of Guards are flying up.

  It hits me then: the Guards have formed a sphere, with me at the center of it, and they’re executing their plan by flanking me from every direction.

  “Stop and raise your hands.” Phoe’s voice is a frantic whisper in my ear. “If they’re going to take you anyway, let’s at least make sure they don’t harm you in the process.”

  I scan my surroundings. My stomach twists with hollow terror.

  “Screw that,” I say and raise my palm at a perfect ninety-degree angle.

  At the same time, I make an almost-punching motion with my hand.

  My disk dashes upward.

  Though I know I’ve been flying up to this point, this is when I see what flying really means.

  “Theo, what the hell?” Phoe’s voice says in my head.

  I don’t answer, but my plan is simple, and I’m sure she’ll figure it out.

  Since I have the shield bubble surrounding me, I plan to ram into the Guards above me. They won’t be expecting this, since even I wouldn’t have expected me to fly upward.

  “Stop, Theo. Your plan won’t work.”

  I ignore Phoe, focusing on the Guards.

  “It won’t work because I lied,” she says urgently. “There isn’t a protective bubble surrounding you.”

  In time with her words, the bubble around my disk shimmers and disappears.

  “It was Augmented Reality,” Phoe says, “like the Barrier.” She sounds on the verge of crying. “I wanted to ease your fear of heights, so I—”

  I don’t listen to her.

  I stare at the approaching Guard.

  He, like the others, is standing on his disk.

  He has no bubble either.

  None of them do.

  Because, like Phoe said, mine wasn’t real. This device doesn’t come with one.

  All these thoughts race through my mind as my disk rockets toward the Guard.

  I’m not sure why, but instead of making my hand into a fist to stop the device, I jab my hand forward to increase the speed and stand up on my zooming disk. The ancient movies had a concept of ‘playing chicken,’ and in my desperation, it’s the only thing I can think of to try.

  The guard will either move, or we’ll collide.

  Unfortunately, the Guard has a third option.

  He spreads his arms as though he’s planning to give me a hug.

  At breakneck speed, I ram my body into his, my shoulder colliding with his helmet like a bullet hitting Kevlar armor.

  Through the ringing blast of pain, I feel a strong hand grab me and see a disk fly away.

  Clearly, the Guard wasn’t fazed by the impact of our collision. As I flail in the air, he tightens his grip on me, dragging me up onto his disk.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see another Guard flying toward us.

  I struggle to free myself, but I might as well be trying to jump out of my skin.

  The approaching Guard is holding a shiny stick-like object in his hand. Stopping in front of my captor’s disk, he jabs my exposed forearm with it.

  I feel a painful jolt, and my vision blurs. I open my mouth to protest, but it’s too late.

  My consciousness turns off.

  18

  The world comes back in a haze of sensations. Dimly, I hear voices.

  “What’s the point of healing him if he’s to
be Forgotten?” a man asks.

  “It’s protocol,” another man replies. “Until they hold a formal Council vote, he’s a citizen of Oasis, with all that it entails, and he’s hurt.”

  “We both know that vote is a formality,” the first voice says. “You heard what Jeremiah said. But if you insist…”

  I feel a pinprick and warmth spreads through my body, easing the pain in my ankle and shoulder—the shoulder that hit the Guard in what seems like a bad dream.

  I attempt to open my eyes and say something, but there’s another cold jolt and all sensations fade.

  * * *

  I struggle into wakefulness again.

  There are no voices around me this time.

  I peer through a sliver between my eyelashes.

  There’s a white floor and a white chair nearby. I also detect a medicinal scent in the air. If I didn’t know the horror of the true situation, I could tell myself that I’m in a nurse’s—

  “I know you’re awake,” says an unfamiliar raspy voice. “Your brain frequencies were alpha and theta just a few minutes ago, but they’re different now.”

  I open my eyes and take in my surroundings.

  This is where Mason was strapped to a table. I’m sure of it.

  Worse than that realization is the next one. The man in front of me is the white-haired monster who gave Mason that fatal shot.

  I blink away the remnants of my grogginess.

  Close up, I can’t help but marvel at this man’s leathery, wrinkled skin and his frail muscle tone, which is noticeable even under his robes.

  These are signs of aging, something that shouldn’t exist in Oasis.

  I try to speak, but only a hoarse noise comes out of my throat.

  The man’s eyes are piercing blue and bottomless. He catches my gaze, and I feel like if I stare him down, I might get lost in those eyes.

  I swallow, try again to speak, and manage to say in a hushed whisper, “Who are you?” Saying something feels good, so more confidently, I add, “What do you want?”

  “I’m Jeremiah, Head Councilor and Keeper of Information,” he says, his gaze turning more intense. “You may call me Keeper.”

  The man’s imperious tone snaps something inside me, and I remember that this is the very man who killed my friend.

  “What the fuck do you want from me, Jeremiah?” I use the F-word on purpose. To break his hypnotic gaze, I give him a harsh squint. “How come you look like an old man from the movies?”

  Taken aback by my vehemence and outright disrespect, the Keeper glances to his right.

  I use his momentary discomposure to scan the room and realize he looked at the Guard, as if saying, “What are they teaching these Youths?”

  The Guard’s mirrored visor conceals whatever emotion he may be feeling, so I quickly survey the rest of the room.

  There’s a second Guard here, unlike on that recording of Mason. Thinking of what happened to my friend threatens to send me into full-on panic mode, so I focus on something else, like on this double Guard business. Do they consider me more dangerous than Mason and thus added a second Guard? Of course, even a single Guard is overkill since I’m tied down the way Mason was.

  “Your fingers have free range,” Phoe whispers in my head.

  Happy for the distraction from the iceberg growing in my belly, I wiggle my fingers. They are indeed free. And I know what Phoe’s getting at. I could, if I wanted to, do the obscene gesture required to get back into the cave and from there be a gesture away from the game. Thinking of playing the game again doesn’t frighten me as much as it ordinarily would have. Compared to my current situation, my adventure inside the game doesn’t seem so bad.

  “But don’t do it. Don’t go back to the game,” Phoe whispers. “At least not yet. They can’t know anything about me or that game. With your brain scan on display like that, it would be risky, since we don’t know what—”

  “I look like an old man because I am one. I’m two hundred and nine years old,” Jeremiah finally says, responding to my old man comment from what feels like an hour ago. “I’m one of the Elderly and should be treated with respect.”

  The implications of what he says whoosh through my consciousness. He’s been alive nearly ten times longer than I have. I must seem like an infant to him.

  Then my mind goes into scarier waters. If this guy ages, that means the rest of the Elderly probably do too. And if they age, that means the rest of Oasis does as well—including me. Youths have been taught that once you reach Adulthood, the developing process stops. We all believe we stop changing at the peak of health and maturity, which is around forty years old. No one ever calls the process of a Youth becoming an Adult ‘aging.’ Similarly, we were told that an Adult becomes an Elderly when he or she acquires enough wisdom to join the leaders of our society—nothing to do with aging, per se. Aging is one of those ancient words, like famine. Horrible in theory, but poorly understood in practice.

  “When Adults reach their ninetieth birthday, they join us, the Elderly,” Jeremiah says as though he deduced my train of thought. “Before they show any signs of degeneration.” He holds out his spotted hands in front of him. “It allows everyone but the Elderly a rather carefree existence for a very long time, don’t you think?”

  The implications are too horrible to bear. If this is all true, that means we’re no different from the ancients. It means we grow old and eventually die.

  Unable to deal with that right now, I put that thought aside, locking it in a box. Gathering as much bravado as I can muster, I say, “Are you asking me if I agree that ignorance is bliss?”

  “I don’t like this, not one bit,” Phoe whispers, her voice quivering. “He wouldn’t tell you so much if he was intending to let you go.”

  “I don’t understand, Theodore.” Jeremiah stares at me, and I see a flash of something almost like hurt in his pale gaze. “Where is this hostility stemming from?”

  “Don’t say a word about Mason.” Phoe’s voice turns shrill. “In general, don’t tell him about anything to do with me.” I hear her exhale a burst of air in my head. “Please.”

  I glare at Jeremiah. “You give me Quietude.” I fold my thumb with as much emphasis as possible while tied up. “You have the Guards hunt me down.” I fold my index finger. “You tie me up.” I chance pushing my body against my restraints, testing them. They, of course, don’t budge, so I add bitterly, “And you have the balls to say I’m acting hostile?”

  He gestures and a chair shows up next to him. “Since you bring that up, why don’t we discuss your act of running away from the Guards?” He sits down on the chair. “I would not have expected you, or anyone, to run from them.”

  “You don’t know what happened to Mason,” Phoe reminds me.

  “I’m not stupid.” My mental retort is harsh, so I add, “Sorry, Phoe. I’m channeling some of my frustration with this asshole the wrong way.”

  “I deserve your anger,” she replies softly. “I couldn’t protect you.”

  “Why did you run away?” Jeremiah repeats patiently. “And how did you manage to cross the Barrier and get a disk?”

  I look at him stoically and say nothing.

  “What about Quietude? How did you get away from that building?” Jeremiah asks, his voice tenser. “How did you open the doors?”

  I shrug as much as my restraints allow and stare at the wall behind Jeremiah as if its white blandness is more interesting than his bullshit.

  He sighs heavily. “What about Mason?”

  I flinch.

  The Keeper squints, his features tightening. I curse myself for my instinctive reaction. He got a confirmation that I know that name—not that it should’ve been big news to him, since in my ignorance, I spoke of nothing else this morning.

  “Let that go,” Phoe whispers. “You didn’t know about Forgetting. You still don’t, as far as Jeremiah is concerned.”

  I don’t argue with Phoe. I simply make my face impassive and resist confronting Jeremi
ah about Mason, as hard as that is.

  “Who is Mason?” Jeremiah runs a frustrated hand through his hair, bringing my attention to the fact that his hair is thinning throughout, especially around his forehead. “Why did you ask Grace about Mason this morning?”

  “We were merely discussing the Freemasons,” I say. “They were one of the ancients’ largest and best-known secret societies.” As nonchalantly as possible, I stretch my neck by turning my head from side to side. “Kind of like the Elderly here in Oasis. You’re the first one I’ve met.”

  Jeremiah starts to get up, but then sits back down again. “It’s just a matter of time before you stop insulting my intelligence,” he says through gritted teeth.

  “Well, why don’t you tell me”—my voice rises in volume—“what the word ‘mason’ means to you?”

  “My role here is to ask the questions. Yours is to answer them.” Jeremiah’s pale cheeks redden. “How is it that you know who Mason was?”

  I purse my lips in response. Subvocally, for Phoe’s benefit, I say, “Did you notice he said ‘was’?”

  “Don’t subvocalize,” Phoe whispers. “What if Jeremiah notices you muttering?”

  “Let him think I’m cursing him under my breath,” I subvocalize and shift against my restraints, feeling the strain and soreness of my muscles.

  Jeremiah lets out a sigh at my non-response, and I clench my teeth to avoid screaming obscenities at him. If I give in to the anger, I might blurt out something I’ll regret. Besides, my silence seems to be pissing him off more than any yelling would.

  As I continue to stare him down, Jeremiah sighs again, his expression unexpectedly softening. “Please, Theodore.” He looks almost regretful. “I don’t want to coerce you to speak, but…”

  “Shit,” Phoe says. “Tell him something. I don’t like where this is going.”

  “You want me to speak?” I think at Phoe. “Fine.”

  Loudly, relishing every syllable, I say, “Fuck you, Jeremiah.”

  The left side of his upper lip twitches slightly. “You don’t leave me with any choice.” Jeremiah glances at the Guards as though he said this more for their benefit than mine. Turning his attention back to me, he says, “Last chance, Theodore. Will you tell me what I want to know?”